


Smeagol

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: General, War of the Ring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-27
Updated: 2015-04-27
Packaged: 2018-03-26 01:44:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3832448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just after Gollum takes the Ring... (vignette)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smeagol

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

It was the right thing to do.

Look at his body. Would it be lying there, still and dead, if the power had come to him? No. It came to another. It came to the one who deserved it. It was a birthday present, the greatest and most precious gift ever given.

He wanted to steal what did not belong to him, and for that, he deserved to die. And what better hands to kill him than these? These hands are no longer the hands of someone small and simple; they are the hands of a being who must begin to claim the power he has been given. The precious power that is rightfully his, mighty enough to crush anyone who stands in his way.

Surely there is no regret here? And these tears are not shed over a mindless fisherman who would have stolen something so precious and kept it for himself? His life was worthless until he recovered what has been too long lost, and having accomplished that, what further good could he have done?

These hands, having killed, are mighty. This finger, tracing the edge of his present, courses with power. Everything will be transformed.

He should never lose sight of this gift, this precious band of gold that must always touch his skin, reminding him of what he will become. He will wait until the Time comes. And the Time will come, as surely as Deagol lies there, cold and rotting. As surely as he flopped like a suffocating, wriggling fish when he was killed. As surely as power runs through one who can so easily take life. As surely as he can see that life should be taken; that all those shiny fish in the water a few paces away -- all those fish would shine and try to slip through anyone's fingers, but for the power, the rare and precious power to overcome them.

Deagol used a rod to catch them. Deagol was weak. And that is why Deagol, undeserving and full of tricks and deceit, lies rightfully dead. Deagol is dead, justly killed, because he wanted something more precious than he deserved, and power that did not belong to him.

Already the power manifests itself, molding and shaping the creature who has the mind and will to wield it. Bending his spine, making him so much more than what he was. Having been given that which is most precious, what should he do?

He should be swift and cunning enough to catch fish with his bare hands. Resourceful enough to eat them raw - what need has he for cooking? He should remove himself from the lower creatures around him, who surrond him with their weakness and stupidity, their greed and desire to take his birthday present. He should disappear forever. He should abandon this harsh and colored world and live in a cave, be master of a deeply hidden mountain pool.

He should live forever.

Because this birthday was so special, because the gift came to the one who could keep it safe, the one who could take it away and hide it from those who would steal it or destroy it. Because the keeper of something so precious would neither need nor want other company anyway.

He accepts the proposal of marriage to Power, and so the gift belongs on his finger, his alone, reshaping itself as it comes to rest, heavy because it is precious. It is costly.

He has been given the world, and so he should leave it. He knows his power, and has no need to demonstrate it. He knows the infinite might of his mind and will, and so he has no more need of them.

I am Precious, and you are mine, Smeagol. It was the right thing to do.


End file.
